


Still Hurting

by Buckydeservedbetter46



Category: The Last Hours Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Post-Book 1: Chain of Gold, Post-Canon, Spoilers for Book 1: Chain of Gold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:07:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27912772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buckydeservedbetter46/pseuds/Buckydeservedbetter46
Summary: As he climbed the stairs he realized how tired he was, both mentally and physically. It seemed a miracle when he reached his room on his feet. He locked the door behind himself, coming to rest on it. Eyes fluttering closed and a sigh escaping his lips. All he wanted was to curl up in the bed in the hopes that his worries wouldn’t follow him into his dreams.“Cordelia told me you’d left. I was awaiting your return.”
Relationships: Alastair Carstairs & Thomas Lightwood, Alastair Carstairs/Thomas Lightwood
Comments: 2
Kudos: 114





	Still Hurting

Alastair had never described himself as a coward. He had always proudly stated to be the type that didn’t run away from his problems, choosing to face them head on instead. 

That day, however, he could declare that he was bravely running from his home and his sister’s friends. 

Cordelia Carstairs, young and promising Shadowhunter, his Layla, James Herondale’s bride to be. He had contrasting thoughts on the matter. He didn’t hate James, nor his family, he never had. But he’d spent so much time ablaze with jealousy as he laughed with his friends or parents, that it seemed weird that they were going to be brothers-in-law. 

And he hated being indebted. Alastair wasn’t stupid, it had been clear since the beginning that the young Herondale had only taken Cordelia’s hand in marriage to save her from a scandal that would’ve ruined her. 

Yet being grateful to him and bearing their cheerful celebrations were different things.

Most of all, he was tired of the hostile glances he received when he walked in on their conversations. 

Seeing the rage in their eyes made him shake. So, often enough he spent his nights in his room cursing himself for having been so selfish and stupid. For having said things he didn’t even mean. 

He deserved this and so much worse. He couldn’t blame any of them for their behavior. 

Naturally, this didn’t make the situation any easier to face. 

Alastair sighed for what must’ve been the twentieth time that night. 

Every time he left the house those thoughts crowded his mind and left it aching. 

He didn’t want to go back home, he really didn’t. But he couldn’t run away forever. After all, his sisters friends would stay until late into the night to celebrate James and Cordelias’ approaching wedding. 

Slowly, he began making his way home. It was winter, and a cold breeze shook the few leaves left on the forests trees. Their rustle accompanied him to the Carstairs’ home. 

He could hear the young and excited voices from outside the house. 

Attempting to make as little noise as possible, he opened the heavy door and made way into the warm house. Mother had probably lit the fireplace to warm their guests. 

He quickly began heading towards his bedroom, strategically avoiding Cordelia and her friends. But her laughter stopped him in his tracks as he walked past. 

A small smile curved his lips. Layla’s voice was filled with joy. She seemed so happy. He could picture her with her flaming red hair, which she was so proud of, with the dresses of flamboyant colors she had begun wearing when they’d arrived in London. 

His sister was radiant. Alastair promised himself not to ruin her happiness with what he’d done. 

As he climbed the stairs he realized how tired he was, both mentally and physically. It seemed a miracle when he reached his room on his feet. He locked the door behind himself, coming to rest on it. Eyes fluttering closed and a sigh escaping his lips. All he wanted was to curl up in the bed in the hopes that his worries wouldn’t follow him into his dreams. 

“Cordelia told me you’d left. I was awaiting your return.” 

Alastair may have been exhausted but he was still a shadowhunter. All of his fatigue abandoned him at once, and with quick movement his seraph blade was in his hand and pointed at the stranger sat on his bed. 

Blade that immediately cluttered to the ground, powering down as it left Alastair`s surprised grip. 

Thomas Lightwood eyed every inch of him with an inscrutable expression on his face. 

Alastair felt naked under his inquisitorial gaze. His heart beat impossibly fast and he couldn’t quite tell if it was because of his surprise or the nervousness of being in the same room with Thomas. Alone, with Thomas. 

The young Carstairs was favoring the second option. 

He swallowed before finding his voice again. 

“You should be downstairs”. His voice didn’t convey surety. Thomas’s gaze was intense as it slowly moved to Alastair’s arms. 

“I think we should speak,” he declared. Alastair lowered his gaze. He was tired and cold. He couldn’t hold any type of conversation, much less one of such importance. 

“Now is not the time.” He muttered, trying and failing at keeping his voice steady. Horrified, he noticed he was shaking. 

“No. We’re doing this now.”

Thomas’s voice was hard and cold, making Alastair wince. He had felt uneasy ever since their last conversation a couple months life earlier. It hadn’t gone well. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he began, still leaning on the door. He didn’t dare move closer to the other boy. “I know you’re mad—“

“I’m not mad, Alastair” Thomas interrupted, crossing his legs. “I’m furious.” A pause before adding, quietly: “And disappointed.”

Alastair’s throat went dry. Fists curled at his side as he pressed closer to the door. His eyes closed once more as he tried to string together a response. 

“I know,” was all he could say. 

Thomas was quiet. Silence rained upon the room until Alastair could hear his own accelerated heartbeat. 

“I never meant to hurt anyone.” 

“And yet.” Thomas’s voice was so detached, so far from the one he’d known in Paris. He studied him carefully. 

When he really thought about it, he seemed a completely different person from that of Paris. 

Where was that kind and timid boy? Alastair had killed him. 

How much time had even passed? He couldn’t remember. 

“It wasn’t my intention,” his voice shook so violently that he considered running out. 

“You thought you’d hurt no one with what you said.” It was barely a question, sarcasm brimming in every word. Alastair started at the floor with no response. 

“I’ve always defended you,” emotion made way into his words, but the anger in them made Alastair wish Thomas would turn back to apathy. “When Math said you were a horrible person and I denied it. When I told him it was only a bad impression. I was so wrong.”

Shame kept his eyes from meeting Thomas’s. 

“Thomas..”

“I believed in you!” His voice raised, and the past tense reached deep within Alastair. “I’ve defended you, I’ve excused you and you— you lied! By the angel, what else am I supposed to be if not angry, Alastair? Do tell me.” He left no time for an answer. “I look at you and I all I want is to hit you.” 

The words stung worse than any wound he’d endured. Alastair could feel his heart shatter with every sentence out of the other boys mouth. He deserved all of it, and that acknowledgement was the only thing keeping him quiet. 

His eyes stung with unshed tears. He shut them to keep them there. 

He heard the bed groan as Thomas stood, and his footsteps until they were centimeters away.   
  
His heart was beating out of his chest. 

“I don’t want to hear your motivations. I don’t care. Whatever happened, Alastair, it gave you no right to do or say any of it.” 

Alastair opened his eyes but kept them trained to the floor. It was a bad idea, he realized too late. It only made him aware of how close they were. 

He drew in a deep breath, trying to regain control. 

“I wasn’t thinking.” he whispered, suddenly appreciating the different shades of brown that made up his bedroom floor. 

“You should have. You hurt people. It’s on you Matthew can’t stay away from the bottle. It’s on you my mother cries herself to sleep every night. You hurt my family. You hurt me.” 

His voice was furious and Alastair could no longer keep his eyes dry. 

He breathed deeply, mad at himself. Mad at his father. Mad at his mother. Mad at Thomas, here to throw his mistakes in his face. As if he didn’t know them by heart. 

He knew he’d been wrong. He wanted to do better, to be better. He wanted forgiveness from those he’d wronged, and knew he’d have to earn it. Thomas was only worsening his mood, making his already enormous guilt grow. 

“I cant change the past, the angel knows I want to. I’m trying. I’m trying not to make those mistakes again.” A deep breath. “So why are you here to remind me? Trying to hurt me like I hurt you?”

Alastair quieted, his throat aching with unshed tears. He swallowed, finally finding the courage to meet Thomas’s gaze. His eyes were somewhere between desire and rage. 

“A wonderful turnout if that’s it,” he murmured, as a single rebellious test slid down his cheek. Many followed. 

He turned his head away, furiously rubbing his eyes in the attempt to stop them. 

A sob escaped him nonetheless. He covered his mouth immediately, desperate to get a hold of himself. But the dam had broken, and all the guilt and rage that had built during those past months, years, came rushing out. 

He covered his face with his hands, shame filling him. 

“Just leave.” Alastair sobbed, trying to get past Thomas. It seemed to be harder than expected, either because of his own miserable conditions or Thomas’s strong build. 

Alastair was so exhausted and under shock that it took him several seconds to register the strong arms wrapped around his body. 

He tried to free himself, but Thomas held fast and at the second attempt he brought one hand to the nape of his neck. 

Finally, he relaxed, his head coming to rest on Thomas’s chest as another sobbed escaped his lips. His knuckles turned white around the fabric of Thomas’s shirt 

Thomas stroked his hair gently, his chin on the other boys head. He seemed small in his arms. 

“I’m still furious,” he murmured near his ear. 

Alastairs next sob resembled a laugh, and he buried his face deeper in Thomas’s chest. 

“I know,” he replied, before comfortable silence overtook the room. 

And when Cordelia’s began saying goodbye downstairs, it was deep into the night. 

Thomas hadn’t joined them. 


End file.
